


To each his own

by Silly_Bones



Category: Outer Banks (TV), Outer Banks - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, More angst, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, drama on drama, pogues are adulting!!!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:53:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24540355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silly_Bones/pseuds/Silly_Bones
Summary: It's been 10 years since the Pogues went their separate ways (carrying some gold and a few broken hearts). May seem like enough to forget, but is it really?They're grown-ups now, all cool and collected and everything goes well... Until someone dies, someone comes back and all the old emotions resurface with a proper BANG!A bit of everyone, but mostly John B x JJ reuniting and falling straight into a tornado of feelings. With some sad songs in the background.So yeah, basically all the angst, drama and some smut (eventually) that stemmed out of one (quarantined) girl's brain.My first fanfiction ever so have mercy on my soul!Rated M for the language, all the drugs and future chaptersss.Check the end notes for a playlist!
Relationships: JJ & John B. Routledge, JJ (Outer Banks) & John B. Routledge, John B. Routledge/Everyone, John B. Routledge/Original Female Character
Comments: 11
Kudos: 51





	1. I'll take the desert, you take the coast

You’re young and reckless and certain of particular things. And everything seems definitive. Dusks and dawns. Friends and enemies. All the _I love yous_ and all the _forevers_ are monochrome. Clear cut. As black and white as a burnt-out film negative. Summers seem endless, each being an adventure of its’ own, evenly split into chapters of weeks and parts of months. Days like pages, crisp and bright. Every morning – no matter if _morning_ stands for 6am or 2pm that day - the world is created from scratch.

You know where you belong to.

No, wait.

You know _who_ you belong to.

And then life happens.

It’s just how it is, _isn’t it?_

Some people stay close, some drift apart.

You spend all your birthdays together until you don’t. You go away for college. You send each other birthday wishes, but then one year you forget ( _Do you, really? Or is it just some twisted way of seeking revenge, although more on yourself than on them?)._ You remember the next day, but it feels awkward to reach out then.

So you don’t.

Yeah, it might have seemed like a potential end of the world when you were sixteen and you would never, _never_ let it happen. But now you’re twenty-two and the world doesn’t end. The planets spin as they always did, with a silent hum you can hear if you lay very, very still, very late at night, surrounded with nothing but an empty, lonely darkness.

And then, out of a sudden, you’re twenty-six. Twenty-seven. You actually turn twenty-eight that spring and realize there’s younger people serving you in restaurants, calling you “sir” and treating you like an proper grown-up.

 _Are you one?_  
Well, sure. In some aspect at least. You pay your bills and taxes. You own a car. Your name stands on a work contract, lease file and a couple more important documents. You are engaged. You vote and have political opinions. You take supplements, drink green juices, make sure to get six to eight hours of sound sleep every night, stretched on your ultra-soft orthopaedic mattress (well, that fall had its’ effects on your health in the end). You’re responsible. Relatively stable.

Content in your steady ways.

And, to be honest, you don’t even think of them that often.

It really seems they’ve become a memory, not the only reality you know ( _Did they, really? Or is it just another sparkly lie you tell yourself, so you can sleep and work and kiss your woman and survive and let them live, too?)._

A shadow.

A vague silhouette (all bright blue and golden brown, soft curves of muscles and tight arches of joints, tan shoulders specked with fine blond hair; their laugh, oh Jesus, that laugh, vibrating through the swelter of a late July afternoon).

A sudden mention, every once in a while, on Facebook or in the midst of a small talk with a high school acquaintance you bumped into in a supermarket. Nothing more than that. 

And you function. No, wait, you _live._

( _Or at least that’s what you tell yourself_ ).

No big drama, no big longing. People stay or grow apart.

And life…

Life does what it does best – it goes on.

Until their father dies.

***

To be entirely honest, JJ didn’t expect him to live that long.

Well, he actually did. And he didn’t.

 _Maybank men are like cockroaches, son_ , Luke used to say. _Indestructible._

 _But,_ statistically speaking, he should’ve died years ago.

Drunks and junkies – like, _real_ drunks and junkies, ones that spend majority of their miserable lives on a futon surrounded with half-empty bottles and cigarette drags, ones who are pain to be around, all their charm washed out with cheap vodka, all their humanity shrunken to a size of a raisin, as wrinkly and dry as their skin – rarely hit their sixties.

_Real drunks like his father._

It’s always been pretty bad but got even worse when JJ turned twenty. He’d been living on his own for a while already, yet still stopped by every now and then to check on his father, re-stock his fridge and cupboards with things other than mustard and beer, change the light bulbs, fix the roof or crooked porch panels, things like that.

( _With all of his doglike loyalty. With all of his naivety of a child._ )

Luke lost his job – well, he lost _all_ his jobs, the illegal ones as well, eventually. He’d drunk-drive, get into bar fights and sometimes lose himself in the wetlands, singing wasted serenades to the silent, fluorescent moon. He’d mix booze and pills, go days with barely any food, neglect his body’s desperate cries for help, numb all possible pains and symptoms with more alcohol, more weed, more tramadol and coke.

The ultimate recipe for self-destruction, short and sweet.

Yet he perished.

_Till that one day in July..._

JJ moved out for good with the beginning of a senior year, changing his addresses as he changed his girlfriends and changing his girlfriends as he changed his mind. He did that often, in a weirdly rhythmical way. There was a method to that madness: First few weeks like acacia honey, the rest - always a nightmare. Suffocating boredom, unkept promises, lies. Finally, a duffel bag packed in a hurry, a couple bitter words exchanged in the hallway, front door slamming behind his back.

He couldn’t settle – nobody ever taught him how to be still.

 _What about the peace and quiet?_ They weren’t really his things. Routine made his body itch, he felt it tightening around his limbs like the roughness of a sisal rope. It was a compulsion – he always badly needed to free himself.

So he ran. He scuffled with himself. Always found a good reason to quit something old and start something new. A job. A relationship. An affair. A _project_ of some sort.

For a long time, he assumed it’s because he was poor. This rush, this obsession with movement. _Once you go full kook,_ he swore to himself, _you’ll stop; you’ll slow down, you’ll cherish what you’ve got on your plate._

_You will be happy where you are, JJ._

But money – well, they got quite a bit of it eventually – didn’t help much. It’s just his toys that got more expensive, the rest stayed exactly the same. What he’s had never _felt_ enough – not because there was too little of it, but because it wasn’t the _right thing._

It wasn’t the thing _he wanted._

***

Seconds before you learn about it, you lay on a hammock hung between two elm trees in your future in-laws’ garden, a wishy-washy, thin, feeble thing - never, ever to be compared to that sturdy, solid piece of jute plaiting your father got for the Chateau.

You’ve stretched your legs out, slender calves and tan, bare feet in flip-flops, you’ve got a Pisco Punch in hand, a half-heartedly half-read book abandoned on your chest. You’re all bronzed skin and white teeth; health, wealth and success shimmering in the sun.

_And here it comes, a twist and a turn._

_A tsunami with no earthquake to warn you._

_A thunder with no clouds._

_It’s 6:17 pm, the 14 th of July. _

And now it’s 6:18.

One minute you’re almost napping, the other - you drag yourself up, put your feet down (you feel nothing but the prickling of young green grass prickling the softness of your soles) and look at your phone. It woke you up, that little vibrating bastard, _who dares_ to call you on a God damn Saturday when you’ve set your email on an auto-reply urging people to fuck-the-hell-off until Monday morning?

_Kie._

Jesus, what?

K. I. E. Three little letters, all _edgy_ and sharp, no unnecessary ovals and bows. Kie. Miles of rainbow-y zigzags of handmade jewelry. Hair, curly and ebony and wild.

You’re actually shocked realizing you still have her number, and even more so thinking she didn’t change it. All these years.

What was it, seven, eight?

_Nine. Nine bloody years._

“Kie?” you ask. No _hello._ No courtesy of a _long time no see._

“John B”, again, no proper greeting. “John B?”

First a statement, then a question – as if she wasn’t sure you still existed. Or maybe as she was about to create you from the start?

_John B_

(the boy who looked for gold and found the truth, or maybe who looked for the truth and found nothing but gold?)

_John B_

Nobody calls you that anymore. You’re _just John_ now _,_ you’ve been him for years. _Johnny_ for Nadia (you hate it, but you _think_ you love her, so you give in every time). John Routledge for your colleagues.

Someone called you “J” once, for short, but you just couldn’t stand it.

“Yes, it’s me”, you nod awkwardly, and it feels as if you were confirming your whole existence. Your roots. Your legacy. Lighthouses and Nor’easters, wax myrtles and sabal palmettos, saltwater and cicadas. And sand. Everywhere.

_John B. John B from Outer Banks._

These people – you throw a quick glance at the white façade of an antebellum house rising behind your, a picture-perfection of an American dream – they have no idea what that means.

“Yeah, that’s… good”, she says, but you immediately know it’s not _good_ at all. There is something in her voice, that anxious staccato, that makes you shiver. Shit. Shit, fuck, fuck. You know it - she doesn’t even have to say it (but obviously she _does_ say it anyway).

“I think you gotta come here”.

***

It was Sue, the woman he drank and slept with sometimes (although JJ couldn’t understand why would _anyone_ still want to do either with Luke) that found him. She came over after lunch, as that’s when they would usually start the _party;_ a bottle of peach schnapps in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other. She stood in the doorway with a summery dress hanging loose on her stick-thin, emaciated body and called out his name.

_Luke!_

Nothing.

_Luke – Lukelukeluke!_

Everything told her not to do it – the dead silence, the numb echo ricocheting off the walls, a couple of old pictures sticky with dust and grease, full of ghosts and specters from the past- and yet she did enter the living room.

JJ’s number, apparently, was the only thing hanging on the fridge’s door secured with a childish magnet. A smiling shark. Underneath it: two crooked letters like fishhooks and a row of hieroglyphic numbers.

He was actually fucking someone – no jokes, he was having sex, the ultimate confirmation of still being alive, when his father was dying, _what a fucked-up irony_! – when she called.

But he didn’t know the number, so he didn’t pick up and only got back to her half-an-hour or so later, when _his girl_ has already left.

Sue was crying hysterically with strangers’ voices in the background.

Ten seconds of sharp pain. More than of a broken limb or a dislocated shoulder. Then he went completely numb.

There was an ambulance – what a peculiar sight, an ambulance that should’ve come to _him_ so many times in the past and never did – and a police car, and some neighbors-turned-onlookers standing around the house. In the driveway, around the shed, with the tall, pale grass beneath their feet.

“I am the son”, he said, announced even – _like it was a something to be proud of_ – and a young policewoman let him into the house. It smelled like death and dirt – quite adequately, to be honest, and his father was still on the sofa.

Dead. As he should be.

Dead. Not to be scared of anymore.

Dead. A pathetic bag of bones.

A father.

Hands. Feet. Eyes. Baggy jeans, a stained singlet and just one sock (ridiculous!).

His father.

_No, please. Please, stop it. I promise I won’t do it again! I’m sorry! Please, I’m sorry!_

His dad.

He brought himself back. A deep breath. Finding his own pulse with two ice-cold fingers. Things he saw and smelled. His own name. His address and date of birth. How fucking grounding.

Someone taught him how to do that.

Someone he needed, badly. Someone he couldn’t call. Or could he?

They’ve had a pact. One of many. He’s made a promise.

_Jesus fucking Christ, how much he needed him right now._

But it wasn’t his number he dialed.


	2. Call me friend but keep me closer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been 10 years since the Pogues went their separate ways (carrying some gold and a few broken hearts). May seem like enough to forget, but is it really?  
> They're all grown-ups now, cool and collected and everything goes well... Until someone dies, someone comes back and all the old emotions resurface with a proper BANG!
> 
> Such a slow-burner, I know, but I just derive way too much pleasure from imagining the Pogues with their new lives, relationships and dramas. Sorry not sorry!   
> There's an emotional tornado coming, I promise. 
> 
> Rated M for the language, all the drugs and future chaptersss.  
> Check the end notes for a playlist!

It’s 7am, a bright, cloudless day in Martha’s Vineyard; everything smells like coffee and regret.

You wish you could stay ( _and you don’t)._

You wish you didn’t have to go ( _and you can’t wait)._

There’s a printout of your plane tickets waiting for you on the night stand, two cups of steaming black coffee right next to it. You're packing your travel bag, an old battered holdall, pacing around the bedroom barefoot; wet hair, water still dripping onto a damp towel on your shoulders.

A pair of jeans. Two pairs of shorts. Shirts, t-shirts. A toothbrush.

You didn’t get any sleep last night, yet you’re absolutely restless.

Documents. A sweater. A book for the flight. _A compass._

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

Nadia sits on the edge of the bed: long ribbons of wheat blonde hair, pale green eyes, rosy cheeks, the kind of a banal beauty you’ve always found comfort in. She’s all beiges, ivories and corals in her light cashmere sweater, leather sandals and two thin strands of natural pearls surrounding her swanlike neck.

Pretty. Bland.

_Pretty bland._

Nadia Shennigan. A _good_ girl from a _good_ family.

There’s a promise of a steady, easy future in her arms.

“Johnny”, her voice's like molasses, a soft, nauseating cry for attention “Are you absolutely _sure_ you don’t want me to come with you?”

Only now you realize you didn’t answer her the first time ( _are you even there, John B, on the idyllic softness of the carpet, or are you far away already, in the midst of North Carolina’s coastal heat?)_.

She always asks you these and heck, she’s great at it. _Do you want help? What can I do? Do you need me?_ You can never tell if it’s an expression of honest care or her possessiveness. Cause, you see, Nadia is just a type to _own_ other people, to subtly mark them with her name (you can’t blame her, really, it just runs in her clan), add to her collection. That’s what she’s done to you, she wrapped herself around you like poison ivy. Slyly, imperceptibly. You were _hers_ before you even noticed.

“I am. Don’t worry”, you stop moving frantically for a moment and lean down to kiss her “I’ll be back before you know it”.

She would probably insist on accompanying you, but luckily her agenda is filled to the brim with meetings and appointments. Wedding-accessory shopping. Dress fittings. First wedding cake tastings. Ridiculous little chores she loves yet complains about for the sole sake of complaining.

Well, lucky you, John B, fortunately long-ass conversations with florists and hairdressers are more important than the past calling your name.

“You think you will make it for the pre-wedding-dinner-rehearsal with my parents?”

Pre-what?

_(Ridiculous.)_

“Yes, of course. When is it again, the 21st? I won’t be gone for longer than a week, darling” you shrug your shoulders, you tantalize her with an innocent smile. “And then I won’t leave you, like, ever again”.

_Liar._

Going _there_ means _going back_

and

_it may lead to a point of no return._

_***_

He stood over the pull-out couch – hands in his pockets, feet glued to the rusty floor, fire in his throat - when they’ve put the body on a stretcher.

_The body._

Two young paramedics, roughly his age, brought the corpse out.

It was his _Father,_ that _corpse,_ for Christ’s sake, that _body_ they carried with so much ease. Hazy blue irises, knots of burnt-out neurons and plaits of forever-stiff muscles now covered with a blue medical sheet.

_His Father._

Dead. Finally.

_Dead as fuck_ , _hallelujah!_ JJ actually snorted with a short burst of sardonic laughter.

Thirteen years of suffocating fear. Twenty-eight of shame and disgust he first couldn’t name nor understand. Further ten of looking over his shoulder and irrational guilt he hated himself for feeling. He wanted to _believe_ there’s a possibility of a different life. A different type of functioning. Christ, he’s even seen a counsellor a couple of times for it, he’s been reading plenty, educating himself, trying to _heal._

But he still couldn’t get all that out of his system ( _will that be imprinted in me forever, ingrained in my bones?)._

He still woke up, every now and then, _howling._ Scaring the fuck out of his one-night-only-lovers with his whimpering. Sweaty palms, pupils dilated with panic.

_Pathetic! Look at you! Fucking little wimp!_

Memories would hit him sometimes, and when they did, they hit him _hard_. He’d be at work or making breakfast in the kitchen and something would just click in his brain bringing this… wave… this flood… this whirlwind of…

He’d freeze, a blue plastic spatula in hand, scrambled eggs burning on a pan or a half-written email in front of him, the cursor’s blinking urging him to get back to work. Like a fox caught in a bright circle of car lights in the middle of a highway.

Paralyzed with terror.

That’s not how _Freedom_ is supposed to look like.

( _Was he finally free now?)_

“James?” he looked up as the all-too-polite young policewoman called him by his _official_ name. She was pretty, with kind brown eyes, dark skin and shiny black hair tied into a bouncy ponytail, and kind of reminded him of someone. “I’ll need you to sign this”.

She handed him a couple of documents and a pen - he pretended to be reading through them for a minute or two, then jotted a quick, shaky signature on each page she pointed to.

All this fucking time, the paramedics stood in the door staring at him blankly. They were _done_ here and more than ready to go and save more lives or cover more deaths with coarse piece of blue material. The young cop collected her precious papers, she was _done too_ , yet still looking all worried and professional.

_The procedural compassion. The compassionate procedure._ Buuuuuulshiiiiit.

“Is there anyone you’d like me to call?”, she asked.

“I called her already” JJ pointed at his phone. _Her._

Kie, the only other Pogue left in Kildare. He loved her, he did, really, even if they've been drifting apart lately. She was his friend, his partner in crime (both metaphorically and not metaphorically at all), his safe-base in these rare moments when he’d decide to _speak._ Also, he really just didn’t know who else would actually come if he called them. 

But…

She still wasn’t the first person he thought of. _Oh, fuck this, of course she wasn’t._

“She should be here in twenty or so. You guys can go, really”, a nervous giggle “I’ll be fine.”

_I always am._

“Alright then…” the woman smiled apologetically. Did she really care or was she this well fucking trained?

She’s made a little step towards the door, then stopped to turn around and look JJ straight in the eye ( _blue as a fresh bruise)_.

“Listen, James… I’m really sorry” her voice was soft, soothing. What a _fucking_ angel disguised as a _fucking_ cop! “I know it is hard”.

JJ snorted once again, biting his tongue before a bitter “whatever” could escape his mouth. Not only she kept using this ridiculous first name of his, she also… Well, she knew _shit._

“Yeah, yeah. Thanks”.

_Bullshit. Bullshit. Whatever, whatever, whatever._

He truly just wanted them to get lost and leave him alone, more than sure he’s gonna find some abandoned warm vodka in the depths of the kitchen cupboards, as frowsty as they were.

Although… before she left… He did notice something. Caught it with a glimpse of his eye, really, and had to blink a couple of times in pure disbelief. Was it a coincidence? Could it be?

_Oh, fuck me, it’s a small world after all._

The nametag pinned to her chest read: “Peterkin”.

_***_

Let’s be honest, you’re not too fond of flying.

It is not about the fear, really. Or the nausea if it gets bumpy.

It’s the sense of a complete restraint you despise so much. The claustrophobia of being stuck inside a metal can for _hours_. The feeling of being trapped.

Funny. Because that’s exactly what you’ve gotten yourself into voluntarily, isn’t it?

Outside the plane, living this mockup-of-a-life next to Nadia. It’s all as comfortable as your first-class flight… and just as disgusting. Too easy. Too opportunistic.

A fucking epitome of a _Be Careful What You Wish For._

And, you know it all too well, there’s no one else to blame but you. No one to shed the responsibility to.

Well, you’ve had your dilemmas and you’ve chosen the easiest possible solution, didn’t you? Compliance. Expedience. A no-brainer of a cushy little life.

What did happen to the _real_ John B, one may ask, the boy with fire in his eyes? Where’s that blithe young man, ready to roam around Nassau and win his gold back? What about his honesty, his pure, wild heart?

You don’t want to sound too bitter, but suddenly _growing up_ and _giving up_ seem to sit unbelievably fucking close to each other in your personal vocabulary… With the idea of _settling down_ as their direct synonym. All three on one page.

So… here it is. Your cozy, adult existence of a rich, young man: loneliness of a red-eye flight. Tiny warm washcloths handed to you by pretty flight attendants. Relaxing music _oozing_ from the speakers above your head before the takeoff like pus. A gold-pleated Hublot on your wrist counting your days away, faithfully, dutifully.

The life you always wanted, the reality you always longed for. _Full-Fucking-Kook._

“Ah, you’re looking awfully sad, young man!”

You raise a brow. The woman sitting next to you must be like ninety years old, you’re actually surprised they’ve even let her fly, isn’t it too freaking risky?

(But hey… _can one even be denied a flight because of their old age_?, you wonder. _Pope would know, Kie would consider the question as inappropriate and JJ… well, he’d have a theory of his own and elaborate on it with a glint in his eyes)._

“Pardon?”

_Pardon?_ So, this whole stuck-up politeness of a fucking little lordling or something… _is this what John B speaks like now?_

“I said you look blue as hell, sweetie!” your elderly fellow traveler raises her voice, probably assuming you can’t hear her through the ventilation’s rustle.

“Well… I guess I am”, you mumble, struck with your own unexpected sincerity. You’ve got nothing to lose, gliding through the night sky with this mysterious little grandma as your only companion (Jesus, how much you wish you could just tell Him all about it…)

_Just let it all the fuck go, John B._

“It’s alright, sweetheart!” You wonder if she’s actually a mind-reader, when the tiny old woman places one of her aged-gnarled hands on your shoulder; It’s bony and warm, heavy with gleaming golden rings. “You can tell me what’s eating you! I don’t have much life left anyway, ‘will take your secrets to the catacombs anyway!”

There’s something so reassuring, so freeing in her tone, and God, the burden you carry feels so heavy, that…

_Well, yeah. You tell her._

Okay, not the whole thing, obviously. You don’t say a word about the gold. Nor about how little of it you got in the end. You don’t tell her about Nassau and Yucatan, your gap year in Europe and a _glorious_ comeback (yeah, not that glorious at all); about living alone in the Chateau and then heading off to college. You’re silent about Sarah, too, and how you dropped to one knee in front of her, with an enormous diamond ring in hand, in an attempt to resuscitate something that has already drowned by then. Finally, you don’t even mention that one last evening in late August ( _you’ve made up your mind by then, your bags were already packed)_ when the two of you went surfing.

_JJ and you._

But the rest of it… Yeah, you just put it out there and let it hang the weightlessness of an airplane air. The ever-changing climate of Outer Banks, little Kildare, always tormented by storms and heat, gales and hot spells and squalls. And your father – first disappearing, then dying. _And_ your mother, too, sending you postcards once a year ( _Greetings from wonderful Colorado, Texas, New Orleans, Florida…_ \- the list going on and on and on). The father of your first love being sentenced for life, her brother hanging himself in the attic before they could have even arrest him. The Pogues evolving into something you didn’t like at all. All the pain. All the disappointments. The overwhelming ache of a heart that keeps on breaking.

“Oh, that’s an awful lot to go through! And how old are you again, darling, twenty-eight? You did say, didn’t you?”

You nod.

“That’s right, madam”

She touches your shoulder with a compassionate little pat. It must be the lack of oxygen, but you feel almost high.

“So… why are you going back there again, sweetie?”

_I’m going to a funeral,_ whispers the quiet voice in the back of your head. _Tell her, John B! You’re just going to a funeral! In and out, you’ll be taking a flight back in less than a week! Seeing old friends for a night before you part again and possibly forever. Nothing more than a simple social obligation._

“I’m going to see the one I loved” you say, and the _“d”_ at the end of the sentence gets lost in the roar of the plane’s engine.

_***_

There was something so familiar in hangovers that he almost welcomed this one with relief.

They felt… Well, it may sound quite worrying, but they did feel like _home._

The fatigue, the sensitivity to even a smallest hit of light, the shakiness of aching muscles, gentle yet pretty fucking persistent, a pounding headache bringing (the lack of) memories from the previous evening with its’ each throbbing wave.

How many mornings did he spend in the Chateau feeling like _this_ when they were sixteen, waking up shirtless and cranky only to make his way to the kitchen for a hair of the dog of a drink (usually a Budweiser, or a Natty Light if the times were especially tough)?

_A countless amount._

Today, though, was different. And not just as he wasn’t a teenager anymore, but also because of the hangover’s root cause: The whole of last night he was drinking to his father. To his loss. To his _death._

Celebrating it or mourning, he wasn’t too sure.

It was a cliché, yeah, the whole drama of getting shitfaced when your parent dies and the confusing pain you feel becomes too much to bear, but if there’s one occasion in life when you deserve to reach for clichés, that must have been it.

Besides, another thing disrupting the familiarity was the fact that it wasn’t the Chateau; JJ could tell with an absolute clarity, even half-awake, managing to open just one eye. The blanket? Too soft. The air? Too fresh. The interior? Shit, way too tidy for it to be John B’s little den.

There was pastel macramés on the walls, a multitude of intricate candle holders all over the place, pointy Arrowheads, dark-green Boston Ferns and exuberant Trailing Jades (not that he knew any of the names, obviously) in baskets hanging from the ceiling. Bob Marley stared at him from one corner of the room, Nelson Mandela’s been sending him a warm, fatherly smile from the other – both, thanks God, frozen in time on large-scale posters.

It was all too obvious. _All too freaking obvious._

“It is the 15th of July. Sun in Cancer, the second day of the Jupiter at Opposition…” Kie walked into the living room, barefoot, bed-headed, bringing the rich scent of incense and herbal shampoo and a ruffled orange blanket with her. “A big thing for Leos like you. Expect the unexpected!”

“The unexpected, huh?” JJ dragged himself up with effort and leaned against a wall of pillows behind his back. ( _Soft like the policewoman’s voice. The Peterkin girl.)_ “A somewhat risky thing to say to someone who’s just lost a father, don’t you think, Kiara? You think I should expect Luke to raise from the dead like Jesus?”

Shit, it sounded harsher than he initially intended. And obviously elicited the reaction he feared.

“Jesus, JJ… Shit! I am so sorry!” She blushed and clenched her fists. Awkwardly. A typical embarrassed Kie, too damn cute to get even close-to-angry with. “So, so sorry, seriously, I…”

“Chill, I’m joking” The world was still spinning, but JJ managed to look her straight in the eye and smile. “It’s all good, Kie. I’m feeling fine.” ( _I always am)._ “Well, if you don’t count the fact that I think I’ll puke myself if I move a fucking finger, so you will have to be my personal assistant. And a maid… Could I get some…uhh… water?”

She half-sighed, half-giggled and rushed to the kitchen to bring him a super-sustainable, corked glass bottle. She also kept an eye on him while he drank his water (well, she _always_ did, actually), probably in case he’d choke on it or something.

Out of your entire gang, as far as he knew, Kie was the one to change the least. Her hair was a tad shorter, and her facial features honed with age. She also exchanged her crop tops for soft linen blouses and wore a couple less braided bracelets on her tanned wrists, but that was all. The rest - the strength, the shyness, the bravery, all her colors - stayed absolutely the same.

“Bottoms up! Good boy! Hydration is key, you’ll feel better in no time” she assured him although they both knew that _feeling better,_ if it was even possible, will take far more than that. “You can stay as long as you want, by the way. I don’t even have to be at work today, swapped shifts with this girl, Tiana, you remember her?” (He didn’t). “Anyway, I’ll just have to leave around 7 in the evening. For a bit. Just to pick them up…”

There was something in the movements of her hands, the nervous fluttering of her fingers, that instantly put him in a state of alert.

“Pick them up? Pick _who_ up, Kiara?”

The brunette looked at JJ as if he was not just hungover, but also suffering from a severe intellectual disability.

“Pick _who_ up? You kiddin’ me, JJ? Them. John B, for Christ's sake, and Pope. And maybe even Sarah, if she didn’t miss the ferry, although I gotta check. They’re all coming, you don’t remember? We spoke about it yesterday and…”

She kept on talking but he did not listen anymore.

It was enough.

It was more than enough, actually.

It was the beginning and the end. The end and the beginning. Or...? _Or...?_

He looked up and caught a little ray of sunshine with the prism of his eyes ( _blue like a Blue Jay's feather)._ The light shone through him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay everyone, I'm stoked to be writing this, the second chapter of my very first fanfic ever and you guys seem to like it which makes me the happiest I can possibly be, truly!  
> I absolutely love any feedback (be gentle, but I'll cope with everything) and will be so happy to hear whatever you're thinking. 
> 
> Here I've got some songs to keep you company!
> 
> "To each his own" - Talos  
> "When the party's over" - Billie Eilish  
> "What the fuck" - The Boxer Rebellion  
> "Thingamajig" - Miya Folick  
> "Small things" - Ben Howard  
> "Can we kiss forever?" - Kina, Adriana Proenza

**Author's Note:**

> Some songs to keep you company!
> 
> "To each his own" - Talos  
> "When the party's over" - Billie Eilish  
> "What the fuck" - The Boxer Rebellion  
> "Thingamajig" - Miya Folick  
> "Small things" - Ben Howard  
> "Can we kiss forever?" - Kina, Adriana Proenza


End file.
